


The Witcher You Know

by TrashyTime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Typical bereavement, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Geralt Adopts Everyone, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Good With Children, Happy Ending, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyTime/pseuds/TrashyTime
Summary: Geralt is too late to save the village. But for one small boy, his potion ravaged face is comforting.So comforting, in fact, that Geralt has to coax the scared child out from where he's dashed in fear after Geralt takes a White Honey. The conversation that follows, between an exhausted Witcher and a very upset little boy, is just as unexpected as the way the boy had been so comfortable clinging to Geralt at his scariest appearing.(Could be seen as set long after TV show, or set after B&W in W3. No spoilers.)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 87





	The Witcher You Know

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Fitz makes statements about how he sees the world, and how he sees the role of men within it. He is, a product of his very few experiences. Please be aware if statements by a child about Men being mean and bad, could be triggering, you may want to avoid this fic or read it with awareness that this is coming. 
> 
> Also Fitz is very recently an orphan, and that means that yes his mother and auntie are very much dead. Please self care as necessary. 
> 
> I promise, however, it has a happy ending.

“Nuh uh! Good man have big black vines! All over! Vines even ate his eyes!” Geralt felt a headache growing behind said eyes right now. The little kid had been just fine with him while he carried him out of the Arachne nest, even running up to him and clinging to his leg before he had really had a chance to ensure there really were no more of the huge mutated spiders coming. The whole village had been put under a spell and lured into these caves- the bodies were more numerous than he wanted to consider. Of over thirty people, only this one small armful of a boy survived. 

Geralt felt comforted, though he could not explain how or why, when spit sticky hands fisted themselves into his hair with a childishly careless grip. It registered almost like a reward for picking up the child, frighteningly small and light as he is. That reaction was even more inexplicable than how the boy seemed to have taken to him, however. The kid evidently recognized that Geralt was here to save him, despite how monstrous he currently looked. Geralt’s voice was quite growly when deep into the toxicity of potions; Dandelion had commented on how scary it was on more than one occasion, and even Ciri had paused when hearing it. 

Yet the little boy had laid his head on Geralt’s shoulder and told him all about how his Mommy an Auntie went deeper into the caves and he had fallen and twisted his ankle an it hurt lots an he couldn’t keep up, interspersed with questions about Geralt’s hair, and age. “You’re old?” had segued into “You’re so many! Know my grandpa?” and other questions that fortunately distracted the boy from what was around them. 

Geralt knew that the boy’s aunt and mother were among the bodies. But he also knew, from his own experience and experience with the other trainees of his youth, that within a few years the boy would forget them, except for the stories he would tell himself and hear from others. 

All of that had not in any way prepared him for getting back to Roach and setting the kid down to rummage in his pack for a White Honey, only to have it all go wrong. There was a scream when he turned around after downing the potion. It was startling enough that he didn’t react in time as the kid suddenly darted back to wedge himself a man length deep in a crevice too narrow for Geralt to enter. 

Which brings them to their current impasse. Geralt is too exhausted and at too much risk of unbalancing the still partially-present mental compulsion from the monsters, so Axii is completely off the table. He has to convince a scared little boy that he is not actually scary, and that the boy should willingly come out of his safe little crevice. Geralt can’t leave the boy and send a villager from the next town over to gather the scared child; it is likely they won’t bother with a “cursed child,” as is far too often the case with sole survivors. 

Geralt knows the boy had introduced himself as Darling Boy when first scrambling up into Geralt’s arms in the cave, but some part of Geralt rebels at using that pet name. Without much hope, he says, “Kiddo, it’s me, I swear to you, I am the same man that rescued you.” Some part of Geralt is exhausted at losing the absolute acceptance and trust of just moments ago. Now that he has his golden eyes back, he is the scary and evil Witcher, out to snatch children. 

He tastes copper on the back of his tongue at the unfairness that, almost a century later, the Monstrum propaganda is as strong as the epitaph of Butcher. Nothing sticks to Witchers like bad impressions, no matter how hard he and his brothers work to protect the people that spit on them. 

“NUH UH! I telled Vines Man my name! Vines Man know my Name! He’s OLD OLD!” The last is shouted as loud as the first, as if the age is important somehow. Geralt sighs heavily as he gives into the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He can feel all the tension gathering right above it in his forehead. 

“Look, Darling Boy is not a name. It is like calling you a Good Boy,” he tries, more focused on stemming the headache he can feel blooming than what he is saying. That gets him a short scream of frustration and a clot of dirt thrown at him. It bursts against his chest to sprinkle across his armor. 

Geralt blinks and brushes over his chest with his hand to get rid of the bits of dirt, scowling into the crevice before reviewing what he just said. He groans then tries again, “Look, what did your mom and auntie call you when they were mad at you?” It’s a desperate gamble but he’s grasping at straws here. 

There are a pair of bright green eyes scowling at him from the back of the crevice, grimy face nearly blending with its surroundings. When the small voice finally speaks, it’s begrudging and sullen as it spits, “Fitzherbert Glassblanchket”. Geralt blinks a few times then concedes that isn’t a good name for a little boy either. 

“Alright, Darling.” He rolls with the boy’s preferred name with a sort of inward shrug, too tired to even begin to tackle that mouthful of a proper name. “I am a Witcher, but I am the same Witcher that saved you. Those,” he pauses and uses the term the boy had used, “vines were the result of my potions, which are toxic. That black stuff was my veins reacting to the poisons in them.” He doesn’t really have much hope that the kid will understand any of that, though he hopes that the steady talking will at least convince the kid he isn’t out to harm him. 

The boy frowns quite seriously but turns farther towards Geralt. He peers up as if studying Geralt’s face intently before asking, “So you not man? Cause you eat poisons an not die?” 

Geralt is taken aback by this question on multiple levels. He really has to think about which part he wants to tackle first. Not thinking about what he said just got a clot thrown at his head so he takes a second to look at the different parts of the question. The first is that the kid seems shockingly aware of what poisons are. The second, and possibly the more important, is that Geralt not being a man seems comforting. 

All at once, Geralt feels very glad that once this kid is safe, he can return to Corvo Bianco and put Ashland very far behind him. He settles down into a deep squat, knees bent and all of his weight distributed so he can keep the pose as long as needed. “No, I’m not like a regular human man,” he says, and his heart hurts at the comfort that seems to bring the boy. He is still wary, but in that way that all children are supposed to be of strangers instead of a gut-deep terror. 

Somehow, this is worse for Geralt than the idea of the Monstrum following him around even now. The Monstrum is something that will only scare and upset the kid as long as he’s with Geralt. This… is something much worse. Geralt almost wishes it were as simple for the child as a fear of Witchers. “Hey, Darling, can I ask why you’re afraid of humans?” 

Darling scowls again and puffs up his chest “‘m not! Only mans! Mans are bad and do hurting and hitting and make pain for everyone!” Geralt had almost expected that. A mother and an aunt. No husband. A village like Ashland isn’t often an accepting place for those that are different. And little Darling doesn’t look like a well fed widow’s son from a town that has embraced them. 

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment. “That isn’t all men are, didn’t you ask me about your grandfather? He was a man.” Geralt cracks an eye to look into the crevice; the small form is closer now, with skinny arms crossed. 

“Nuh uh! He was a Father. A good Father. Not a hurty father. An he loved me lots an lots an lots! I not haveta hide in the attic when men come if Granpa was alive!” There is a sort of defiance, a certain worldview that shows Fitzherbert was very loved by two women that tried hard to protect him from all the dangers of the world. 

Geralt is swamped with sadness at the unalterable fact that Fitzherbert’s mother is dead; her love for her son makes him want desperately to bring her back to him. His chest aches and his throat feels thick to the point of choking, swallowing harshly on the cloying weight of distant echoes of the love he once so fervently wished he could have known from his own mother. It is hard not to feel that lack in his own childhood, in the face of such love draping this boy, still more a baby than a child. 

“That’s,” He pauses, then tries a different set of words, “Your Grandpa may have been a good father, but he was also a man. And someday, when you become an adult, you will be a man too.” He says it very softly, and he expects another scream of denial or maybe another thrown clod of dirt. Instead there is a sullen silence as the little boy mulls over Geralt’s words with a seriousness that leaves Geralt desperately wanting to shelter the boy from the world in much the same way he sometimes had felt about Ciri. 

The boy chews his lip and wiggles himself back and forth as if he has a pendulum knocking him from hip bone to hip bone. Finally there is another question, wide green eyes staring intently into his own: “You also a Man?” 

Geralt flinches internally at the question; it is asked so innocently but it hurts him all the same. “No, I never had the chance to be a man. I was made into a Witcher when I was still a boy.” 

Geralt can barely fathom the mind of the child before him as, quick as lightning, the boy is stamping one rag bound foot while throwing his arms up. “Then I be a Witcher! An I kill monsters an help people too!” 

Geralt’s flinch this time is a physical thing, a recoil that rocks him back on his heels as if he had taken a blow. His breath catches before he shakes his head. “No, Fitzherbert, that isn-” Geralt is cut off before he can say anything more. 

“NO! I NOT be a man! I not! I be a Witcher! You a Witcher! An I be too!” The small fists are balled up, the tiny form squared off defiantly with Geralt despite the comically large difference in size. 

Geralt is suddenly very aware of just why Fitzherbert’s mother and aunt always told him to hide in the attic anytime a troublemaker or drunkard came by… the boy would probably fight a bandit if given half a chance. Geralt discards a dozen possible answers before settling on, “Most every boy that went through the trials of becoming a Witcher died in a lot of pain. It would make your mom sad to know you were in pain.” 

He doesn’t expect the fat tears that spring up into the boy’s eyes, nor the ragged sob that suddenly rips itself free as the little form shakes in the shadowy shelter of the little boy’s bolthole. “Mom an Auntie are dead. Like Dad an Granpa an, an Sir Meow. They can’t feel cause they’re dead. I be a Witcher. You no can say no!” The boy is hiccuping even as the tears don’t stop. His chin is up in defiance even though he is so small Geralt could quite literally stuff him in a carrying sack with ease. 

Geralt feels that weird mix of pride for the boy and aching sadness that he has to face so much loss so young. Geralt has never been comfortable with seeing children be thrust into hardship, to watch unable to help as they face something so much bigger than their years can prepare them for. The eyes that meet his are so much older than the face they are set in. A man who can fit the name Fitzherbert, and wield it without shame, stares up as if willing the world to match his words. 

If Yen were here she would probably make a comment about Geralt’s soft head matching his soft heart. Geralt tries again, though he can almost tell before he begins that he will most likely lose the argument. “They can’t make more Witchers. Not anymore. The potions that mutated us are lost.” 

The child’s chin is high and his frail looking shoulders shake, even as his lips wobble. “Fine! Then teaches me! I be Witcher! No potions!” The emphatic declarations, said in that childish voice, leave Geralt feeling shaken.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to this. The look of determination in those eyes, despite the tears, reminds him of his brothers, of Ciri. If there was a Wolf School still, Fitzherbert would be one of the most determined trainees those halls had ever seen. Geralt feels every bit as grateful that there is no Bastion anymore as he did when he brought Ciri home to Kaer Morhen all those years ago. 

Geralt chews it over but he already knows the decision is made for him even before he has had a chance to consider all his options. He is exhausted and while he could try to Axii Fitzherbert once they are close to an orphanage… he won’t. “Darling isn’t a name for a Witcher in training,” he tries instead. 

The boy purses his lips and his hiccups slow a little. “I Fitzherbert.” The statement is made with an assurance that would be comical if not for the gravity of the situation. 

Geralt nods slowly, then opens his arms to the boy. “Come on Fitzherbert. If you want to be a Witcher, you have to learn to do exactly what I say. We need to ride for a few days, but when we get to where we are going, there are a few people who will help train you.” Geralt knows Lambert will want to kick his ass, but Eskel and Aiden will probably be willing to help him. 

Coën and Letho’s school doesn’t take children under 8. Until then, well, Geralt and his brothers will help train Fitzherbert. Maybe they can manage to show him being a human isn’t so bad. If not… well. The school of the Hansa is always taking willing students. 

Geralt’s breath catches as the boy moves closer once more, unsure what will happen next. When Fitzherbert climbs up to cling to his chest, Geralt can’t explain the warmth that settles over the sadness. Fitzherbert isn’t his. There is no destiny at play here to make him feel a connection. 

Youthful exuberance returns to Fitzherbert’s face, eager green eyes look at Roach as they come close. There is a trusting sort of abandon in how the childish grip shifts so dramatically from Geralt towards the horse’s mane in a motion far too fast for her liking or the boy’s own safety. The absolute confidence he has in Geralt’s hold is obvious as his entire body flings itself into the lunge to pet Roach’s mane. It takes a quick shift in grip to keep the boy from tumbling, even as Geralt slightly turns them away from his mare. 

Geralt gently catches the reaching hand and uses this as the first of many lessons. “No, we have to ask before we touch others. And we have to make sure that we use a gentle touch. Here, you have to move slow and ask her if you can pet her. Her name is Roach.” 

Fitz looks at Roach with wide hopeful eyes, not squirming to yank his hand back, and asks in a soft tone, as if trying to mimic Geralt’s gentle voice for Roach, “Your hair pretty Roach. I pet? I be slow.” He watches Roach for a reaction and when she steps closer he grins up at Geralt, all fear of earlier gone. “Can I pets her now?” he asks, obviously yearning for it, and he accepts the guiding hand that takes his and shows him how to pet her mane, repeating the name for it dutifully as he babbles to Roach about how pretty it is and how good she is. 

When that is done he goes back to clinging to Geralt’s hair and armor, with far less gentle a touch than he had for Roach. But it’s okay, in a way it tells Geralt this is real. And if it also makes his heart thump a little harder at being needed and accepted, that is between him and himself.

His arm tightens around the small form all the same. When the boy eventually falls asleep, head cradled on Geralt’s chest over his slow thumping heart, Geralt finds himself wrapping the reins on the saddle horn to allow both hands to do the holding while his darling boy sleeps so peacefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are fuel that keeps my cold heart warm. 
> 
> Please consider stoking the fire?


End file.
